8. Ruslan
8
RUSLAN
Drako Kremlin, Dragunov Village, Russia
The clang of steel and grind of stone drown out everything else.
Sweat clings to my back as I hoist the broken slab with two of the men, guiding it into place above the archway.
Drako Kremlin rises piece by piece—just as I imagined.
Just as I promised.
This fortress was stolen once.
It won’t be again.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, a sharp vibration against my thigh.
I ignore it.
Then it buzzes again.
Persistent.
Relentless.
I pull off my gloves and check the screen.
Konstantin .
A cold weight drops into my stomach.
He’s not due to report in for another week.
“Da,” I answer in Russian, stepping out into the cold wind cutting across the coast.
“I couldn’t stop it.” Konstantin’s voice is tight.
Regretful.
My jaw locks.
“Stop what?”
A pause.
Then: “Gavriil and Tara. They spent the night together at the Diamond Hotel last night.”
Everything inside me stills.
The wind, the waves, the fortress behind me—all disappear under a surge of blood pounding in my ears.
My grip on the phone tightens.
“Do you have proof?”
Another pause.
“Da.” A chime.
My phone pings.
“I’m sorry, Rus.”
His voice is soft, his words sharp.
He knows, without me even having to tell him, that Tara had gotten under my skin after just one night.
Even if I refuse to admit it out loud, and try my best to bury it.
I don’t look at the pictures yet.
I can’t.
Not yet.
“Anything else?” I ask, the words jagged in my throat.
“Yeah.” Konstantin’s tone shifts—careful now.
“The day you left Vegas, I made contact with Tara.”
I turn and brace one hand on the cold stone wall of the Kremlin.
“And?”
“She was sitting in the park, alone, looking distraught. She pulled a puzzle box from her purse, and as I drew closer, I saw her pull out a photo of a woman. She muttered something about wondering why her father had a picture of the woman hidden in a puzzle box.”
“I’m assuming there is something interesting about it?”
“The puzzle box, for one thing,” Konstantin says.
My phone dings.
“It’s a hand-carved Ofeliya Zorin puzzle box. Just sent you the photo.”
“Tara’s mother and Gavriil’s aunt are good friends. She could’ve given it to the Crafts,” I point out.
“Maybe,” Konstantin says.
“But the picture of the woman she was holding was Anya Novikov.”
That gets my attention.
“There are a lot of pictures of Anya. She is well known worldwide, being the Jewel of Russia.”
“I thought of that too,” Konstantin continues.
“I followed Tara from the park to a storage unit where she was fiddling through a box. When she left, I checked it out and found a picture of her mother and father.”
“I thought you checked them both out,” I say.
“Isn’t the father dead and the mother the headline burlesque dancer at the Ember Club?”
“Correct. There were no red flags there,” Konstantin confirms.
“But this is the first time I’ve seen what Tara’s late father looked like.”
“And?” My knuckles whiten against the stone.
My phone pings again.
“See for yourself.”
I swipe the notification open and stare.
My stomach flips.
No fucking way.
The resemblance isn’t just close.
It’s undeniable.
Leonid Zorin!
According to the files I’d seen, the man had died over twenty years ago.
“What the hell are you saying?”
“That maybe Tara’s father wasn’t who he said he was. And that maybe, just maybe, Tara Craft isn’t who she thinks she is either.”
“Why keep a picture hidden in a puzzle box of Anya Novikov?” I hit back another question.
“Do you remember the news about the Morozovs?” Konstantin jogs my memory.
“Anya and her husband, General Morozov, lost their daughter, granddaughter, and son-in-law in a house fire over twenty years ago.”
“You think the son-in-law was Leonid Zorin?”
“The Morozovs were always careful not to bring their family into the limelight,” Konstantin reminds me.
“Not much was known about their children except that night of the house fire.”
“I need to find articles from back then on the fire,” I mutter.
“Already had someone do it,” Konstantin tells me.
“There was not much mentioned in there, and no names for the daughter, husband, and child.”
“Fuck!”
“Do you want me to look into it?” Konstantin offers.
“No. Stay on Irina and Tara, but I need you to do a deep dive on Carla Craft,” I order.
“I want to know everything there is about the Craft family. I’ll handle the Zorin and Morozov part.”
“Understood.”
I end the call and stare at the wall in front of me.
The mortar in the cracks.
The raw bone of stone beneath my hand.
I need to breathe, but all I can do is brace myself and open the damn photos.
The first image loads.
Tara.
Her head tipped back against Gavriil’s shoulder.
Her eyes are closed, her lips parted in soft sleep—or worse—contentment.
Gavriil has one arm around her, possessive and easy.
He looks at her like she’s his.
Like she belongs to him.
Another picture—Gavriil kissing her forehead.
Another—him lifting her effortlessly from the couch.
And the last one—he lays her on the bed like she’s fragile.
Precious.
Then he walks to the window, pulling the blinds closed.
My pulse slams like a war drum.
Heat floods my chest, behind my ribs, down my arms.
I want to crush something.
Smash the phone in my hand.
Fly back to Vegas and put Gavriil through a wall.
But I don’t move.
Being so fixated on Tara Craft wasn’t part of the plan.
Tara was never supposed to matter.
She was supposed to be someone I strung along to get her out of Irina’s way.
But the second I touched her, that plan dissolved like ash in my hands.
I don’t allow myself to look at the pictures again.
Instead I pocket the phone and head for the truck.
The coastal road cuts through the frozen cliffs.
Wind howls off the Black Sea, slicing through the quiet.
Konstantin’s information clatters around in my head like loose rounds in a mag.
Tara.
The photo.
The puzzle box.
Her father, Leonid Zorin?
I throw the truck into gear and turn onto the long, dusty road that leads to Zorin Farm.
If Tara is tied to Leonid Zorin or the Morozovs, this changes a few things.
My brow furrows as I wander about Carla Craft.
Now that I think of it, I have heard Carla Craft and Irina speaking Russian during a previous visit to Irina.
I had even commented on how well Carla spoke Russian, as if it were her mother tongue.
Now I’m thinking maybe it was!
As I pull up in front of the Zorin farm, more questions pile into my mind.
The large iron gates with a keypad loom in front of me.
I press the buzzer, and a voice answers.
“Da?”
“I’m here to see Mrs. Zorin. I’m Ruslan Dragunov, the village elder,” I say.
The gates open, and an armed guard dressed in black tactical clothes steps out.
I don’t like the look of the rifle in his hand as he walks forward and sticks his head by my window.
I open it, noticing the red dragon logo on his flak-jacket—D-Fire private security.
General Morozov’s private security firm who stole their logo from another disbanded elite force from a few generations ago.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dragunov,” the guard greets me.
“I need to check your car.”
I nod, and he does a sweep while another comes out with a mirror and checks beneath the car.
“What is all this about?”
“Just trying to keep Mrs. Zorin safe,” the guard tells me, then orders the gate to be opened, and I’m let through.
I park in front of a wide farmhouse with slate-blue shutters and the kind of porch that should look welcoming.
It doesn’t—not with guards carrying tactical rifles standing watch on it.
Which makes me wonder what the fuck is going on here.
Are the guards soldiers, protectors, or perhaps prison wardens?
One of the guards steps out from the side, waving me toward the front door.
“Mr. Dragunov, please follow me.” The man's eyes are sharp and alert.
Inside the farmhouse smells like aged wood, lemon oil, and antiseptic. It’s simple and neat, with a cozy fire crackling in the living room, which I’m ushered into.
“Wait here,” I’m told before the man leaves the room.
I glance around. The floors are wooden and covered with well-worn rugs. The furniture is antique, but I’m willing to guess it has sat in this room for generations. For all its lived-in feel, something is missing—there are no pictures on the walls or family photos.
But something catches my eye on the mantle above the fireplace. I move closer. It’s a wooden puzzle box that resembles the picture Konstantin sent me—the one Tara had. I pull out my phone and find the image as I hear someone approaching. I snap a picture of it and shove my phone into my pocket just in time.
The soft sound of wheels on polished wood makes me turn as a woman enters the room in a motorized wheelchair. She’s in her mid-fifties, maybe older. One half of her face is burned, the scars tight but healed. The other half is untouched and striking.
I notice her wince of pain as she shifts slightly. The thick wool blanket covering her lap ripples, and the bump beneath it tells me exactly what she’s hiding there—a gun.
"Mr. Dragunov," she says, voice cool but clear. "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?"
“I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Ofeliya Zorin,” I tell the woman whose face suddenly registers.
I realize who she is, and now I know why the house is so heavily guarded with one of the top security firms in Russia, if not the world.
“She’s asleep,” the woman replies. “Even if she wasn’t, Mrs. Zorin doesn’t take visitors.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Especially unannounced ones.”
“I apologize for that,” I say. “But I need her help with something.”
“Can I try to help you with it instead?” the woman offers.
“And you are…” I enquire.
“Mrs. Zorin’s nurse,” she tells me, not offering a name or any further details that clarify my earlier suspicions that she’s Lidiya Zorin, who supposedly died twenty-six years ago. Also, in a fire, except hers was said to be a fiery car wreck. Seems the Zorins like to burn themselves to death, then reinvent a new persona, like a phoenix. “Whatever you want to say to her or ask, I can assure you I know her well enough to answer.”
I glance around the room. “I notice there are no pictures of Mrs. Zorin's family.”
“What concern is the decoration of the house to you, Mr. Dragunov?” The woman's eyes narrow a little more.
“It was just an observation,” I tell her. “I came here with my grandfather as a boy, and I remember this room being filled with family pictures.”
“They are too painful to keep on the walls,” the woman answers. “I have a lot of work to do, Mr. Dragunov. If you could please get to the point of your visit. If I cannot answer, I will ask Mrs. Zorin when she wakes and contact you.”
I nod and pull out my phone. “Can you confirm this is Leonid Zorin?” Her eyes drop to the photo, and there is a brief moment of shock in her eyes, but it disappears quickly. “Leonid Zorin is dead, Mr. Dragunov. He died twenty-four years ago.”
“In a house fire?” I ask, and see her brow lift in surprise. “I don’t see any burn marks on him, though in this picture, do you?”
“What is your point here, Mr. Dragunov?” Her voice turns cold. “Is this what you came here for? To harass Mrs. Zorin about her late grandson?” She looks at him in disgust. “She is nearly ninety-five years old. She lived through losing her son, her grandson, and…”
“Granddaughter?” I fill in for her. “I was going to say she barely remembers her name, but she remembers the family she lost. Do you want to know where all the family photos are?” She cocks her head. “They are in her bedroom where she is bedridden. They are a cold substitute for the people she loved.” Her eyes narrow a bit more. “If that is all you came here for, I’m glad you never got to talk to her.”
“All I want to know is what Leonid’s connection to the Morozovs was?” I see her look at me in surprise. “Anya, in particular.”
“That's a dangerous question, Mr. Dragunov, even for someone like you,” she states. “Why are you asking? And where did you get that picture?”
“I got it from a contact,” I tell her. “I want to know if another friend is in danger.”
She looks at me for a while before saying. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Leonid died in a fire twenty-four years ago.”
“Like you were supposed to have died, a few years before that?” I ask, smugly, letting her know I know who she is. “Funny how the youngest Zorin dies in a fire and then a few years later her older brother goes the exact same way.” I glance at the walls. “Is that the real reason there are no photos of your family on the wall?”
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Dragunov.” She starts to reverse her chair. “The guards will see you out.”
“Wait!” She stops at the door. I take out a business card from my pocket and a pen. I flip it and write my personal number on it and put it on the mantle beside the puzzle box. “This is my number if you change your mind about talking.”
“A bit of advice,” she offers and I nod. “Don’t get involved in whatever your friend is involved in. As this is one spiderweb you don’t want to get caught in.”
She turns her chair, and I hear it glide down the hall as I stare at the empty door with a furrowed brow. I wonder what the fuck that meant and am even more curious about Leonid’s connected to Anya Novikov or rather Anya Morozov. While she didn’t answer me directly, I’m more than convinced there is one. What worries me is that Konstsantin had said Tara had no clue who the woman in the photo was. So now I have to wonder. Is she in danger? Or does she know who her father really is?